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scoutdoesstuff · 2 years

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day 4 of me taking the names of the daily samples of tea i've gotten form a month long subscription box and made a fic of them.

this is potentially one of the saddest things i've ever written, with trigger warnings for what is functionally suicidal ideation, frank discussion of someon else possibly commiting suicide, and mentions of the potential of a parent killing their child.

to say that i did not think this is where a flavor called "ramona's liver disaster tea!" would take me is kind of a fucking understatement but um surprise? maybe?

(earlier -- happier -- fics in this month long crazypants challenge can be found here)

Sad Sam Moments. Or, Sam's thoughts the morning before they get to Detroit to meet the Devil.

“Ramona’s Liver Disaster Tea!” Ramona says, appearing from behind the beaded curtain hiding the kitchen from the rest of the restaurant. She hustles across the restaurant with a steaming cup of tea that she places in front of Dean with a flourish. “It’ll clean your liver right out and you’ll be right as rain by the end of breakfast!”

Dean gives her a smile that’s megawatt charming by normal people standards, but severely lacking by Dean standards. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, and moves to take a sip.

Sam squirms a little in the seat across from him. He can’t stop staring at Dean’s hands, knuckles cut up and bloody from the bar fight two counties over last night. It’s either staring at that or at the bags under his brother’s eyes because Dean just won’t sleep anymore. He doesn’t know how to fix this, how to fix Dean, and Sam’s clock is about to run out.

They’re a half a day out from Detroit. Sam’s got about half a day.

He runs his hands over the ratty tablecloth covering the rickety table that they’re sitting at, tries to commit it to memory so he’ll have something to hold on to in the After. He tries not to count down the minutes, divide up the hours he’s got left here. He can’t think about what’s coming next, can’t wonder what it’ll be like to completely lose control of his faculties. Control over himself was one of the few things he had growing up. It was his means of getting through it all — the ever shifting horizon that Dad dragged them to, the new school every third Wednesday, the perpetual poverty that he couldn’t shake even when he went to Stanford. He got through all of it by being in control of himself.

Or at least he thought he did. He had thought he was in control when he was Ruby’s puppet. And he’d ended the world for that hubris. Maybe being under Lucifer’s thumb was his normal and he was still just too stupid and self-absorbed to see it.

He has to force himself to not think about it. He has to put one foot in front of the other or the sheer terror of what he’s about to do will cripple him. And that can’t happen because he has to go through with it. They’ve got no other shot left for the planet. And Sam can’t fail Dean again. He would rather let Lucifer tear into him for an eternity than see Dean’s heartbroken face again.

(He’ll see Dean’s heartbroken face again, anyway, he knows. He has to hope that Bobby and Cas and maybe even Lisa fucking Braden are enough to keep his brother from eating a gun after all of this— or do something worse, like bring Sam back from the dead again).

Sam sneaks a glance at his brother. Dean’s staring right back at him, hands wrapped around the bright purple teacup Ramona had given him, eyes glassy.

Dean had started a bar fight last night just to be able to do something. It’s stupid and self-destructive, but they’re literally at the end of the world. Sam can’t blame his brother for doing something that would have a beginning, a middle, and an end that Dean could control. There wasn’t a lot of that to go around. So he’d let Dean get drunk and beat on some handsy hicks who didn’t know how to take a no from a lady. Then they’d bundled themselves into the Impala and driven away, cackling and literally punch drunk.

The morning after feels less fun.

Sam knows they’re not getting out of this unscathed. No one in their little party is going to get a happy ending. It’s Sam’s fault and he tries to live with it, but every time he acknowledges it, it’s like he’s gutting himself with a dull fish knife. Over and over and over again, he has to look at Dean, at Bobby, fuck at Cas even, and see their war wounds. He gets to look out at the devastation and think, I did this.

There are days where he thinks John should’ve just ponied up and shot him. It wasn’t enough to fill Sam with a gaping hole of neediness, needing approval and smarts and an unwavering urge to “better himself”. John had looked in Sam’s eyes as kid and seen evil, and he was fucking right.

And god that hurt, in the end. Sam had sworn he’d prove his father wrong in every possible way and instead he proved him right. Fuck, there was a point there when he was ass deep in Ruby’s shit where he was John, almost.

Sam chances another look at his brother, pulling his eyes up from where he’s been tracing the pattern on the tablecloth for going on five minutes now. Dean’s still looking at him, eyes still glassy. Dean’s committing Sam to memory in the same way that Sam is trying to commit living in a body to memory.

A tear runs down Dean’s face.

Sam’s made his big brother cry, at the end of all things. He wants to crawl into a hole and die.

“I spent so long mad at you,” Dean says, voice shaking, then breaking. He rubs his eyes and sniffs. “I spent so fucking long mad at you and away from you and I was so stupid. And now I’m going to lose you.”

“Dean, you were right to be mad,” Sam says. He can’t touch the other parts, can’t think about it or risk going catatonic with stress.

“Sammy,” Dean says and then falls silent, still staring at Sam. His knuckles are white around the teacup. “I’m sorry I failed you,” Dean finally says after a beat.

Sam feels rage burn through him for a minute and it’s almost nice to feel something for a second that isn’t white hot terror, but it’s the wrong feeling. Dean’s fucked up a lot, yeah, but he never failed Sam. Not the way Sam failed Dean.

“You —“ Sam’s voice breaks and now he’s crying, too. Sam forces himself to say his next words to Dean and not the tablecloth. “You were one of the best things to every happen to me. You were definitely the best part of my childhood, Dean.” Sam’s eyes bore into Dean’s, willing some of this to get past Dean’s complete lack of self-worth. “You never failed me.”

They sit in silence for minute, Dean’s eyes pleading with Sam for some kind of a break.

Sam can’t give it to him because he’s a stupid fuck who broke the world eight months ago. All he can do is hope he’s got enough backbone in him to save the world. Cas and Bobby will have to be enough to do the rest.

As if summoned, Cas appears, seats himself next to Dean and eyes their untouched plates of food with a ravenous hunger that doesn’t belong to an angel. Sam makes himself take a sip of his coffee, swallow it past the lumps of guilt in his throat.

Dean clears his throat and stands. He mutters something about calling Bobby to see where the old man is and then steps outside after squeezing Cas’ shoulder once, in a way that implies something more than just manly friendship.

Sam should’ve said more to Dean. Sam should’ve always said more to him. Christ, there’s so many regrets at the end of fucking everything, isn’t there?

Sam catches Cas starting at him, in between giant mouthfuls of what was Dean’s breakfast platter.

“You’ll take care of him?” Sam asks.

Cas catches the implied when I’m gone part of the question without making Sam sweat for it.

“Of course, Sam,” Cas says, still every inch a soldier of god even without his grace. No one’s ever sworn an oath to Sam before. He’s incredibly thankful that it’s Cas, incredibly thankful for Cas and his loyalty and friendship, even when he and Dean had done so little to deserve it.

“Your brother is my charge. I will see him well,” Cas says, eyes never leaving Sam’s face.

Dean returns to the table, game face stitched back on, and Sam lets the moment break.

There’s not much he can be grateful for, here, now, at the end. But he can be grateful for this.

It has to be enough.

#spn #my fic #tea prompts #sam girls are right about sam deserving to have more of a say at the end of season five #like he DID end the world and there needs to be some atonement there?#but he also deserved to have some introspection about it #and maybe a hug #also sorry this is such a bummer guys #tomorrow's is shaping up to be a little wacky so hopefully that'll make up for this one

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elizabethrobertajones · 4 years

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Did Bobo really create the Wayward Sisters? If so, why weren't Jack and especially Cas included in that episode? That's my biggest issue with that pilot honestly, I mean, the fact that the show abandoned Claire and Cas' bond after season 10 and gave that storyline to Salmondean. Her bond with Cas is more interesting because of their connection to the Novaks. I also think that Claire and Jack would've made a more engaging dynamic and spin off together, I think they're strong characters & actors

Hi there!

Bobo isn’t the “creator” of Wayward so much as it can even have one, as it was a very organic idea, which even involved a healthy amount of fandom input. The original campaign in season 10 was for Wayward Daughters, and the idea picked up so much steam the altered title for, I guess, a mix of copyright and thematic relevance was the Sisters one. I’d say 10x08 was the real genesis of it as something that could be really solid. Once Kim and Briana were put together the chemistry and star power they could have had together was really meteoric as far as our small SPN world was concerned. Phil Sgriccia directed 9x13 and wrote 10x08 and was more of the parent of Wayward than any specific writer in that sense. Jody and Claire were pretty much common property of the show by that point. Claire was really introduced again in relation to plotlines and questions about Cas and less to do with them really going out of their way to re-launch her. I think they’d have been much cornier about it from the start and while YA protagonist diary writing her way through the end of Wayward Sisters was cute, it’s the sort of cutesy that really has to be earned. If she STARTED that way, like maybe me and 3 friends would be stanning her and everyone else would be revolted :P

(I am a YA fantasy novel author, but I do think everyone should make room in their hearts for this level of cheese)

In any case, Bobo just threw his hat into an already crowded ring with Alex, but obviously loving the characters and having his own personal wayward child to contribute did help elevate him to the prospective showrunner seat, but also all the other writers who’d written these characters except Dabb had left at that point. If Bobo was going to shepherd them through to their new show, he’d be the legacy writer, even though he was a new baby writer in the season Donna was introduced... Attrition aside, he did genuinely write them very well, loved their stories and was great with writing Jody when he could get her, so he would also have been a good choice even if all the others were left still...

But anyway. Season 10′s subplot for Cas was about Claire and learning some stuff about himself along the way, but she was used very much for his personal development and for Dean as well, being a mini Dean herself in a season where he had lost a lot of his sense of self. It’s a total accident of scheduling but Angel Heart (10x20) being the last episode before 10x22 is a nice touch in that regard. And while Cas tried really hard with Claire and awoke his inner Dad side so that he’d be more prepared for fatherhood next time, it was pretty insurmountable between them to have anything more than a bittersweet relationship where the best he could do was make up with her and see her somewhere safe. The fact of him looking like her actual dead father is horrendous the more you think about it and while she managed to see him for who he was instead of a horrible monster, that’s more than enough trauma to inflict on an already traumatised girl for the sake of helping Cas’s manpain and tidying up the sticky question of Jimmy and Cas’s right to the vessel.

Angel Heart very specifically ends with TFW mailing Claire to Jody because they know she’s already good with Alex in a genuine way and can handle these sort of issues and has done it before. And also because she can be a guardian who will not constantly remind Claire that her father is dead but something is walking around wearing a perfect reconstruction of his face. Carver era did a few things here and there with bodily autonomy and the problem of angel and demon vessels, but it was also really hit and miss. They’d get random waves of feeling guilty about it but then by necessity go back to stabbing angels in their still-living vessels an episode later. Claire was a way to address at the very least that whatever Cas was being put through was only a punishment on Cas and not on Jimmy as well, which is probably why we got such sappy Heaven scenes. We NEEDED to be shown he was in Heaven and largely okay with what was going on so that the show could justify using Cas at all as a character without breaking the code of ethics they tried to make their own characters adhere to. Aside from that it also gave Cas a side plot for when he wasn’t needed in the main plot, and any emotional connection to anything that wasn’t Sam and Dean.

Anyway 10x20 caused this huge fandom high which was followed by one of the lowest lows of the fandom immediately after, and both centred on female characters (in fact, now we know, 2 lesbians even! Though I’d wonder if, The Gay Agenda aside, Bobo spite-wrote that specifically because of the roots of Wayward) and I think that galvanised the whole movement of fans and hopefully some self-reflection in the show. They DID start making an effort in season 11, which shows some of the early signs of better inclusion but also backtracking or edging nervously away from the more intense Carver era stuff. Not just because Dean didn’t have the Mark any more but in general it was like someone had opened a window and let in some fresh air... Even before Carver bailed somewhere around the midseason to go do a different show and Dabb started to step up.

All this to say that the Wayward stuff was always about the female characters and making up for the past sins of the show. It’s even a riff on the “wayward son” line which obviously centres around male protagonists and their journey. Claire stumbled into being a part of it in the lucky way of being in the right place and time, but the journey had already started even in the season 10 momentum with earlier work and it was that which suddenly made the prospect that Jody had two young women living with her now seem like a starter for the next generation of the show as it was a mirrored format to season 1 in a way, if you took Alex and Claire as the new Sam and Dean. It was exciting but people flipped out after Angel Heart because stuff had been bubbling since season 9 and earlier in season 10, so this was just pouring more candy into an already visibly full bowl of potential tasty gems. It made a possibility seem real that hadn’t before because we already had Kim bitterly complaining that the CW refused to hear the case for a Jody spin off because she was too old. The next best thing was a Jody spin off where she was the Gandalf to some CW age appropriate characters.

(the CW is and always has been garbage)

Anyway in season 13 Jack was introduced as a Claire 2.0 but as a male character with staying power for that reason, but he was filling the space she left for Cas. He couldn’t be a father to her and neither really wanted that set up anyway. But thematically it had created the possibility of Dadstiel and the space he had in his heart for that. Since the show was in its waning years they would be looking for endgame and handing Cas an easy win with a son he could unconditionally love who would love him back unconditionally absolutely filled that gap. It was a non SamnDean thing that Cas could have for himself outside of whatever happened with them. Not sure the memo came back that he was supposed to have mORE than that but oh well it’s not real if you don’t watch it :))) But yeah Jack was always going to be linked to Cas’s endgame, he wasn’t a free-floating character such as Jody who could go where she wanted and do as she pleased. He was main story relevant from start to finish and tied inexorably to another main character’s fate. Because the show wouldn’t do that with its female characters they could be bundled into spin offs but in practical terms Jack was both never what the Wayward as envisioned by fans or writers was about, nor would he have been free to go.

Since it would have been about centering the stories of people overlooked by the main story, Claire a case in point that she had her life ruined in season 4 and it was a footnote until season ten, and then metaphorically more the concept of having queer and non-white characters in the mix of main characters, it would have represented a future of the story where the main show was unable to tread. Probably because of the CW. Also inherent biases in the writers. Bad cocktail. Jack is both too white and too male to fit the brief to ever leave SPN, and not only that but he is so as a precise mirror to the main white male characters, being passably any one of their sons if you squint, and meant to be instantly instinctively read as such... he was one of the safest bets of representing the show as the network wanted to imagine its target demographic.

So I really don’t think that Jack has any place being in a spin off of the show unless you want more of the same. They tried to give us something different and the CW didn’t like it because it wasn’t more of the same. Ironically a Jack spin off, with or without Claire, would have more chance of being greenlit and more chance of success. But the spin off they put their heart behind was Wayward Sisters as it was. And I think it was absolutely correct that never mind leaving Jack out of it after his work was done in the lead up episode to help set the table, but honestly they could have cut all the middle scenes of Sam and Dean wandering in the woods and gained precious seconds with the girls and still had a functioning story with those guys. It was like some cowardly missive was sent that the show couldn’t actually go more than 10 minutes without showing a flesh and blood Winchester or the whole thing would spontaneously sizzle out of syndication and the money tree would wither on the spot. And in the mean time, we could have been having Banter with the girls. Or Claire and Kaia holding hands some more. The good stuff :P

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years

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Painted Windows 4

Warnings: violence, trauma, allusions to abuse and noncon, isolation, torture, further tags to be added.

This is dark!Bucky and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You make a move.

Note: Okay, here’s some more. It will start to rev up soon, promise. I always appreciate you and thanks for all your patience. Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3 Let me know thoughts, excitement, theories, anything.

Bucky was silent for two days, not that you could muster anything to say to him. He came with your meals, watched you eat, cleaned up your dishes, and slept in the chair. You spent your time alone walking in circles, laying on the floor, staring at the same page. It was worse than the cell because it was so close to the outside. You could hear the winds on the other side of the wood and glass but you couldn’t see them. That was a new type of torture.

But you hadn’t lost count yet. You marked the days by the pages. You folded the corner of the fifth that morning and slid it back on the shelf. You stretched and rubbed your eyes. You crossed to the covered window and placed your hands on the wood. You closed your eyes and imagined the shining snows and the hollow sky. Would spring come soon?

You left the bathroom door open an inch and undressed. You pulled the stopper down and turned the taps. You stepped into the tub as it filled with steaming water and sank into its depths. The heat cradled you, seeped into your skin and bones, you felt… calm. You closed your eyes and floated away as a blue sky pained your imagination. Clouds crawled across in obscure shapes. You smiled as the sun hid behind one that resembled a butterfly.

You heard birds singing and the soft breeze in the leaves. You could smell the pollen and feel the warmth across your face. And then the symphony turned to a drone and then a voice, clear and firm through the crack of the door. You opened your eyes and sat up to listen.

“No, no, I told you, I’m still fixing this place up,” Bucky’s voice drifted in. “Yeah, I know it’s taking longer than I expected. I can just meet you-- No, just in the city. Your place?... An hour?”

You stood and lifted the plug. You reached for a towel as the drain groaned and stepped out onto the bath mat. You slowly pushed against the door and peeked into the room.

Bucky stood before the table, a plate there with eggs and toast, a glass of orange juice, and a fork. He spotted you and blanched as he held a phone to his ear; it was small and unlike the clunky flip phone you called your own.

“Alright. I’ll be on my way shortly,” He said into the speaker. “Bye.”

He hit the screen and tucked the phone in his jeans pocket. He turned to you completely and sighed. His eyes lingered on the top of your towel and he swallowed.

“Get dressed. Eat.” He looked to the clock.

“You’re leaving?” You wondered.

“For a little. I…” He went to the dresser and began to pull out clothes. A pair of black pants, a purple shirt, a pair of white cotton panties, and socks. He grabbed the stack and stalked towards you. “We’ll talk while you eat. Now get changed.”

You made to drop the towel and he caught your hand. He shook his head as his face paled.

“In there.” He glanced at the bathroom door. You recalled the day before how he had been too distracted to notice as you stripped the wet clothes. “Here.” He shoved the clothing into your arms and nudged you towards the door.

You hugged the bundle and tiptoed into the bathroom. You closed the door with your foot and set the clothes on the counter. You didn’t look at the mirror as you dressed; couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge the strange reflection.

You hung the towel on the bar and went back to the bedroom. Bucky leaned against the wall with arms crossed. You went to the chair and sat. He was tense and impatient. You picked up the fork and he nodded.

“Look,” He exhaled, “I work in the city… mostly. Sometimes, I travel. So, I’ve been trying to figure out a way to make sure you’re taken care of. That’s what I’ve been working on.”

You cut out a piece of egg white and popped it in your mouth as you listened wide-eyed.

“I have work coming up soon and I’ll be away a couple days so today you’re moving.” He explained. “You’ll have everything you need. And I have a special phone for you in case you need me. Emergencies only, understand. It only dials out to me so don’t think of trying anything.”

You put down your fork and grabbed the toast. You bit into it and chewed slowly.

“Are you hearing me?” He squinted. You swallowed and took a sip of juice.

“I am,” You assured him. “So your work… you kill people?”

“Bad people. Or I like to think so,” He said.

“And you… save the good?” You asked.

“Try to.”

“And am I a job to you?”

“If I had done my job, you’d be dead.” He said evenly. “You are... “ His eyes flicked down and he shrugged. “You are here.”

You blinked at his vague answer and took the fork again. Even when this man was talking, he said nothing. You finished your eggs and nibbled the toast to the crusts before draining the glass.

“So… where are you moving me to?” You glanced over at him.

“To your room. It’s all yours.” He dropped his arms and pushed himself away from the wall.

“Mmm,” You stood reluctantly. “Am I supposed to call it home?”

“Call it what you will but you will be safe and comfortable,” He replied. “I doubt you would say the same of your former accommodation.”

“A prison is a prison.” You muttered. “Bars or not.”

He said nothing as he went to the door. Just waited for you to follow as he pulled it open.

It wasn’t far at all. Only just down the hall, the very next door. He ushered you inside and was just a quick as ever to close you in. The walls were grey, padded with a soundproof barrier. There were two other doors; a closet and a bathroom. A small dresser and night tables that book-ended the bed.

Along the opposite side of the room was a compact kitchenette; mini fridge, microwave, tiny counter and sink, some cupboards. Had he done all this in mere days? You looked around again and your stomach flurried with nerves. You neared the windows slowly. No boards, only thin lace curtains.

He followed as you peered out into the snowy yard. “You can see out but not in.” He stated. “Shatter proof.”

Your elation died at his words. Still a cell to keep you. You stepped around him and wandered along the foot of the bed to the small round table. He came up on the other side as you looked down at the hardcover notebook. He slid it toward you.

“You should try writing out your thoughts.” He suggested. “It’s supposed to help.”

“I don’t… know.”

“You should do something to keep yourself busy,” He insisted. “You don’t have to write about what happened, just about now or anything.”

“I don’t get it.” You looked at him. “You act like you’re helping me by keeping me here but it’s no different than before.”

He frowned and backed away. “There’s more than enough food for you to survive in my absence. I trust you can figure out how to make yourself a sandwich or two.” He retreated to the door and spun back. “Phone’s in the nightstand to the left. Television remote is with it. Movies just beneath and Netflix pre-programmed.”

“You’re leaving today?” You asked.

“Tomorrow.” He said. “But I’m meeting a friend in the city. Co-worker. Then some running around. I’ll bring your clothes when I return.”

You nodded and lowered your head. “Am I supposed to thank you for all this? This pretty little cell?”

“Do what you want,” He uttered.

The handle turned audibly and was followed by the snap of the door closing. A heavier lock whirred into place and you peeked up at the punch pad. You couldn’t hear him walk away or the creak of the stairs. You could only hear your own breathing as you were once more trapped.

Bucky returned hours later. You barely noticed as you were enraptured by a show you found on the television. It had been so long since you’d seen a screen. So much had changed. The characters all had glowing skin and phones like Bucky’s and the world was so bright. Unlike yours.

He brought a special meal with him. The smell of the pizza broke your concentration. You went to him as he opened the box.

“I should’ve asked you what you wanted,” He said. “But I just got cheese.”

“That’s okay.” You sat and took a slice. “It’s…” Your eyes began to water more than your mouth. “I haven’t had pizza in ages. I…”

He grabbed a slice and settled in the chair across from you. “Take it easy. Don’t push yourself.”

“Thanks,” You said without thinking and bit into the slice. “Mmm.”

He was slow to eat his. You barely noticed that it was because he was distracted by you. You ate even the crust and sat back.

“You can have another,” He offered.

“No, I don’t think I could,” Your stomach felt full already.

“Did you write anything?” He looked down at the notebook beside the pizza box.

The momentary cheer left you and you stood. You grabbed a piece of paper towel from above the counter and wiped your hands.

“I have nothing to write about.” You said.

He was quiet. He took another piece and finished it quickly. He rose shortly after.

“You can put the rest in your fridge and keep it for tomorrow. I’m leaving before sunrise.”

“Okay.” You muttered.

He huffed and dragged his feet to the door. You didn’t look at him as you went back to the bed and hit play. You could feel him watching you.

“Don’t forget, you can call me.”

“Mmhmm,” You nodded and watched the colours flash on the screen though the words were gibberish in your head.

“Good night.” He said.

You focused on the television as the air grew tense. He opened the door at last and left you with the usual grind of the lock. You fell back against the pillows and grunted. You hated this. Him acting like it was all normal. Like it was paradise.

And you just couldn’t figure him out. One moment he seemed caring, even nice. The next he was steely and cold. The swing of the pendulum was worse than the sheer cruelty of your former wardens.

For the first time since your arrival, you slept alone. No chair by the door, no rhythmic snoring to calm you. Only the silence encapsulated in your new cell. The shadows of furniture loomed over you and your heart raced too much to doze. The night was fitful and restless.

You rose before the sun and stared out the window. You heard nothing in the house but watched as the car backed out of the long drive and disappeared down the winding road. You felt lonely now that he was gone, not that he was great company. Helpless might have been a better word for it.

You boiled water in the microwave and made a cup of tea. You sat at the table in the light of a single lamp. You sipped and wondered what to do with yourself. It had never been much of a question before. There wasn’t anything to do but lay in wait of your next assault.

You could finish the series you stayed up late watching or try reading again. You set aside your mug and reached for the notebook. You opened the cover to the first page. It read; this journal belongs to ___________. You uncapped the pen and twirled it in your fingers. You scribbled in the corner until the ink began to work. Then you wrote in unsteady, slanted script; no one.

You flipped the page and hovered your hand above the top line. You didn’t know the date so instead you wrote the number six. Your sixth day there, though it felt like longer.

You moved to the next line. Your hand was slow at first, unsure of the letters to write. Then they formed easier as you reached the fourth, fifth, six lines. You went until you were at the bottom of the page. Your tea was cold and so were you. You closed the notebook and went to the bed. You fell asleep in seconds.

#Bucky Barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #dark bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky barnes x reader #fic #dark!fic #dark fic #au #series #painted windows #mcu #marvel #captain america #Winter Soldier

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winters-tales · 3 years

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Streamiversary Special!

Did you know I've been streaming consistently (more or less) since July 2020? Which means this is my first STREAM-IVERSARY!

I am live NOW with a special 12-hour stream - there'll be everything I'm good at, which is... mostly being bad at video games, let's be honest.

I'm currently starting nice and chilled out with some writing together, maybe reading some pieces aloud like I do in Winters Tales.

Then just like for my birthday, I'll have some group games up that the audience are welcome to join in with, like:

Left 4 Dead (1 & 2)

Valheim

Monster Hunter World: Iceborne

Vermintide 2

and probably a few more!

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE!

I'll do a Steam code giveaway if I manage to hit a couple of donation goals during the stream! The games up for grabs are:

Dead by Daylight

S.T.AL.K.E.R bundle

Batman Trilogy

And through all of this, I'll be raising money to help fund the surgery of Team 2040's very good dog, Willow.

Come and take your place in the shield wall!

#streaming #streamiversary #writing advice

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cometcrystal · 4 years

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i have so many games i don’t care about in my steam library just bc they were in that valve bundle that one time i bought for portal, left 4 dead, half life, and team fortress

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seekingseven · 4 years

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The Most Sincere Kind of Lie (Ch4)

Chapter 4 of my Linked Universe fanfic! Also available to read here on AO3

┍━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━┑

Legend woke up to the sound of humming and the disturbing sensation that the fabric of reality was being torn from underneath him. He sputtered and sat upright in the bed, promptly smacking his forehead into Sky's chin.

"Oh dear, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to wake you up," Sky said with a half-lidded smile. "It's just that the lady wanted to wash this bed sheet and I offered to help her out. Somehow Hyrule got cream all over it and she said it'll make the linen go bad." The bleary, confused look on Legend's face was met by a gentle chuckle from the other hero. "You can sleep on one of the other beds, though, if you'd like. We’re not going to be leaving for another half an hour or so.”

It smelled like morning and clouds and screaming, weeping demons. Legend felt his muscles spasm and his eyes roll to the back of his head.

"Woah! Legend, Legend! It's alright. It's alright, look, it's just me. Look, hey! Look here. Look! Listen to me, Legend! Legend! It's me, it's Sky. You know me. It’s alright. It’s okay. Calm down, you’re safe. It’s just me."

The cool metal of the Lens of Truth and the Magic Mirror pressed up against the bones on the underside of Legend's fingers. The skin of his knuckles stretched tight over his bones, and the artifacts’ handles shook under his grip. Everything was blurry. Everything was red. Everything smelled like burning clouds and tears and crippling guilt.

That voice, though...

He knew that voice...

His femur crunched against the bone of his hip socket as his chest tipped forward. He was falling…

Falling..

Falling...

"Hey, I've got you,” Sky cooed. “It's alright. Whatever happened was just a dream, okay? You're okay. It's okay." Unfamiliar fingers ran through his hair. Legend squinted at the blurry form in front of him and, upon recognition, nearly crumpled in relief.

Sky. Oh, it was just Sky. Oh, thank Hylia. It was just Sky. Just the happy, lazy, vaguely irresponsible Sky, who had blue eyes, not orange ones, who had blond hair, not red. Legend’s temple rested against Sky's collarbone for just a moment longer before he pulled himself out of the embrace. His heart wasn't pounding anymore. Legend blinked quickly and got to his feet, trying to walk off the pins-and-needles in his legs, deaf to the words falling out of Sky’s mouth. So many words were said, words of the comforting, meaningless, cliche sort, words he didn't really hear. There was mention of breakfast and travel and laundry and red and green and a blue sword and a broken-hearted hero with a soul so wracked with grief it found no relief outside of self-flagellation. And then the world was black and grey and Legend was left with the sinking, sinking hopelessness that came with knowing you had no control. His breath became short. He blinked quickly. The world came back. Sky kept talking, a confused, sluggish smile creeping back on his face as he mistook the Legend's blank stare for attentiveness. Words, words, more words, and Legend found himself breaking the brief lull in their one-sided conversation.

"Hey, I can take those from you," the veteran heard himself say.

"The bedsheet?" Sky wondered aloud as Legend took the bundled linens out of his hand, "Oh! That's quite nice of you. Are you sure? You don't look too good."

"Mmmm, don't worry about it." The prickly, uncomfortable conviction that he should say more tugged at the hairs at the back of his neck. Sky, clearly baffled but not one to argue about having mundane household chores lifted off his back, shrugged and smiled. The veteran found himself walking downstairs and out to the backyard, where a small tin tub and block of soap stood waiting.

He didn't realize he'd taken the lens and mirror along with him until he dumped the sheet into the tub and heard the tell-tale clank of metal on wood. Oh no. Oh no. Every half-decent mage knew that magic and water rarely mixed: the artifacts’ enchantments were liable to dissolve if left in there for too long. Blood screamed in the small matrix of veins behind his ears, and his hands shot forward into the tub. He pulled both artifacts out of the water before his heart had taken another full beat and neurotically dried them on his tunic. A hot glob of air stuck itself in his throat. Legend coughed dryly. Praise Hylia, both artifacts looked fine.

A demonic, curious part of him hummed with relief.

"Mr. Legend!" a feminine voice cried out behind him, "please don't worry yourself about the linens! Sir, please. I can't have a guest do housework in good conscience." The Wise Man’s daughter crept up next to him and fiddled awkwardly with the corner of her apron. Her face was set in a tight, uncomfortable grimace.

"Ma'am," Legend began with a smile, "please believe me when I say these chores are more of a pleasure to do than anything else. I've been traveling for a long time. It's nice to something normal like this every now and then." His eyes lingered on the white, frothy suds drifting lazily on the top of the water. He turned to face the woman. "However, would you mind terribly if I did ask you a favor?"

"Oh, of course not!"

"Sky and Wind. You know them?"

The woman nodded slowly, a thoughtful look on her face. "Wind is the little one with the blue shirt, and Sky is the, uh..."

"The sleepy, lazy one, yeah." Legend smiled as the woman giggled into her hands. His focus drifted to the blue mountains in the distance. "May you please, if possible, give them something sweet to eat? A pastry, perhaps, or maybe something cold for the journey? I understand if it's not possible, I really do. But, well, don't let them know I told you this, but they've...been through a lot lately. Maybe this would cheer them up a little bit."

The woman's face brightened at the idea. She started to say something, but second-guessed herself and quickly hurried off towards the house. Legend's heart was warmed by her eagerness. It was a good thing to know that people didn't necessarily need the blood of the hero to be altruistic and compassionate. He turned his attention away from the woman and back to the laundry in front of him. The water swirled and burbled happily as Legend gently cleaned the bedsheets. There was something soothing in the repetitive, mindless movements. Scrub, press, check for stains. Repeat. Scrub, press, check for stains. Repeat. Repeat. Watch the cream stains fade and surrender, watch the cloth darken with water. Scrub, press check for stains. The mountains looked so pretty from where he was sitting. Repe--

"Legend!"

The veteran turned around, not at the sound of his name, but at the loud, uneven footsteps he would recognize anywhere.

"....morning," Legend said, suspiciously eyeing the bottle Hyrule carried in his hands. Brownish, clumpy water sloshed around within, and the murky silhouette of what looked like a dead fish floated inside.

"Good morning," Hyrule cheerfully responded. "I got you breakfast!"

"Where is it?" Legend questioned, trying to distract himself from his growing dread.

"Right here!"

Of course.

The bottle.

Legend opened his mouth slowly, carefully picking his next words. "What is it?"

"Fesikh," Hyrule answered. "You've never seen it?"

"Can't say I have."

"It's something like, uh, pickled fish. It's really good, a delicacy, even! The Wise Man’s daughter and I made it just for you!" The excited grin on Hyrule's face started to slip when he saw how Legend shirked away from the bottle.

"Thanks, but I don't think I'll be able to eat that. I haven't -- uh -- I'm not really hungry. Maybe something lighter? Do you guys have any bread and cheese?" The skin of Legend's hands had started to wrinkle and bloat in the soapy water.

"Oh, uh, I think Wild made omelettes. He's in front of the house with the other guys -- Time went out to ask the townspeople if they needed help with anything and we're just waiting for him to come back before we head out."

"Sounds good. I'll be there in a few minutes."

Legend turned back to the soaked bed sheet, which looked mostly clean at this point. The sound of Hyrule's footsteps faded behind him as the veteran hung the sheet up on the laundry wire. He'd done a good job cleaning it; not even a memory of the whipped cream could be found. Legend knelt down in front of the tub and washed his face and neck with the leftover water, scooping the less-sudsy bits of water into his hands and combed it through his hair. It trickled down his neck and along the ridge of his spine, leaving wet spots behind on the back of his tunic. Oh, that felt so much better. He stood up and strung the lens and mirror to his belt. Now that the bedsheet was clean, he might as well go and get breakfast.

The smell of cooked eggs and steamed vegetables was almost too much for Legend's empty stomach to bear. He found himself sprinting around the house and over to Wild and barely refrained from tearing the proffered plate from the latter's hands. There was no doubt in anyone's minds that Legend would have eaten the whole thing with his hands if Four hadn't cautiously extended a set of utensils to him. A wet breeze skittered above the grass. Legend admired the small, careful clusters of horsetail grass that skirted the nearby river as he stuffed his face with breakfast. The other heros chatted quietly amongst themselves, drifting in and out of the house to collect and assemble their things. Warriors dropped off Legend's stuff on the step behind him, muttering something about only doing it because the veteran looked a little bit preoccupied.

A witty response was already building itself on the tip of his tongue but was cut off by the low, authoritative rumble of Time's voice. The Old Man had returned, and the tight look on his face betrayed the fact that he didn't come with good news.

"Alright, boys. From what I could gather, everyone in Saria Town is relatively happy and healthy. However, the River Man said something about a certain Darunia Town seeing a higher frequency of monster attacks than usual. From his description, they seem to be of the infected sort, and some of them have made their way to the city bounds."

Hyrule's eyes went wide at the news. Everyone turned to look at him, this was his Hyrule, after all, and he was the only one who could properly gauge how bad this situation was. And, if the ghostly pallor on his face meant anything, things weren't good.

"We'd better get going quickly, then," Hyrule began. "Darunia Town is in East Hyrule -- we'll have to cross the sea to get there and the closest dock is at least half a day's walk from here."

"Does the town have a militia to fend off the attackers until then?" Four wondered aloud as the group of heros began to pack up.

"Not exactly a militia, more like one knight. He's a very talented knight, of course, but I don't think he can protect the town by himself. The thing that worries me most is that Darunia has more children than any other town in West or East Hyrule."

"They need all the help they can get, then." Twilight asserted. The entire group nodded in agreement. Legend picked himself up off the step and tried not to heave -- this was exactly what happened when one ate too much too quickly -- slinging his bag over his shoulder as he hopped off the porch.

Just as they were all about to leave, the front door swung open and the Wise Man hobbled out.

"Gentlemen! A moment, please. I'm so sorry to disturb you all," the Wise Man apologized as he made slow, unsteady steps down the stairs. "I just need to speak to Mr. Legend about something. Is he still here?"

Legend, who was straggling behind the rest of the group, stuck his hand in the air. After a few seconds of deliberation, the group moved on without him, leaving the veteran with the warning to join them as quickly as the conversation was over. Slowly but surely, the Wise Man made his way over to where Legend stood. A yellow scroll, flaking at the edges, was bundled in his withered hand.

"I wrote the fusion spell down on this scroll, in case you wanted to attempt it once again," the Wise Man explained.

Legend took the scroll in his hand and casually unfurled the edges. He was half-inclined to give it back and explain that he couldn't read (he could, of course, just not anything written in Hyrule's Hylian) but the words died immediately in his throat.

Every word was written perfectly in his Hylian.

"It is a very ancient spell," the Wise Man continued, "so if you think you might have trouble reading it, I've got a dictionary right here that translates Modern Hylian to the Ancient variant."

"It's alright, sir. I can read this just fine."

"Of course, I should have expected no less from a young mage as talented and well-versed in magic as yourself."

Legend's throat burned. His stomach clenched. His fingers shook with adrenaline and his obsessive curiosity rejoiced with him.

"Thank you," Legend heard himself say, "but I don't think I'll have a chance to use it."

He cringed at his own blatant lie.

━━━━━━━━━▲━━━━━━━━━

The beach's pink stand crunched loudly underneath the multitude of leather boots. Hyrule stood alone on a tiny dock -- not even a dock, really, more of a pathetic outcrop of rotted wood -- and stared at the crystal blue waters ahead.

"Is something wrong?" Sky questioned.

"Yes." Hyrule confessed. "I mean, uh, kind of. I realized just now that my raft probably won't be big enough for all of us." The thin, wiry brunet stepped aside from the doc to reveal a Hyrule-sized wooden raft bobbing in the water. "And the sea isn't safe to swim in...unless you're a River Zora with a, uh, magical force field or something, you won't be able to make it across."

For some reason, this earned a chuckle from Time.

"I mean, we could just make another raft," Wind suggested.

"I've got a few extra bundles of wood with me, as well as some rope. It’s pretty flimsy, though, so if anyone has got binding materials that are a little tougher it might be a good idea to use those instead," Wild said.

"Perhaps we should buy some rope," Warriors mused. The captain turned to Hyrule. "Do you know if there's any place nearby where we can find some?"

"They might sell some sort of fishing rope over in Mido Town," Hyrule said, pointing to the distant shadow in the vague shape of a town. "We can also get lunch from there, since Wild would be using most of his firewood to make the raft."

"Mido Town?" Time mumbled to Legend. "What an odd name."

"I dunno, 'The Water Town of Saria' was also pretty weird."

"I suppose you're right," Time conceded with a wistful smile.

Wild, with Twilight's help, had already laid out a rough raft scaffolding. Four suggested that they just head into the nearby woods to cut down a few trees and expedite the process, but Wind pointed out that the forest was too unfriendly for exploits of the kind.

"Ah, you remembered what I told you about the forest?" Hyrule sheepishly asked Wind.

"Of course. I listen to you when you talk, Hyrule."

This only made the traveler smile wider, but the sailor had already gotten himself knee-deep into a squabble with Warriors.

"Please, Wind, I think I can handle something as simple as overseeing the construction of a raft," Warriors asserted, chin pointed loftily over his shoulder.

"I'm an islander and a sailor!" Wind protested. "I know a thing or two about rafts. I can handle being in charge for three seconds, you know!"

Legend watched the entire exchange with a bitter taste in his throat.

“Wind, just go help Four untie that bundle over there,” Warriors sighed, waving away the indignant sailor glaring up at him. The captain turned his eyes to the rest of the group. “We’ll need two people to go into town to get rope and lunch. Wind, Sky, that will be you guys.”

Legend grinned. This was the perfect opening.

“Hey, Wars, d’ya think I could swap out with Wind?” the veteran questioned off-handedly.

“What, scared of a little hard work? Wait, no, let me guess, you’re scared of rafts? Is that right?” Warriors teased, obviously a little more than irked at the constant questioning of his leadership.

The veteran chuffed at Warriors’ comment and shrugged, blinking slowly and lazily. “Nah, not quite. I haven’t been feeling too good lately, Sky can testify to that,” he said, jerking a thumb towards the smiling Skyloftian, “and I think a little walk would help clear my head. You know? And also, I think the sailor’ll do a much better job of overseeing this than you think. Don’t forget that this guy literally stuck the Master Sword in Ganondorf’s forehead.”

The Links were silent.

Legend smirked so hard that his cheeks hurt.

Wind looked like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to cry or crush Legend into a massive hug.

“So, what’ll it be, pretty boy?” Legend quipped.

Warriors rolled his eyes, but there was a resigned scarlet flush on the tip of his ears. Legend was sure it wasn’t from the heat.

“Okay, sure, whatever. Wind can supervise. I’ll supervise his supervising. Is that better?”

Everyone nodded in casual agreement, and Wind let out a wild whoop . His eyes met Legend’s for a brief moment, sparkling with gratitude.

For some reason, even this victory wasn’t comforting. It was too temporary of a fix. Legend broke eye contact and looked away.

“Uh, everyone? I-In regards to lunch, do you guys want to know what they sell in Mido Town? I spent a lot of time there during my journey -- they’ve got really good food. If you guys want to, uh, want to choose, I can tell Sky what they have, and he can write a list. Then you guys can choose what you like.”

Everyone was grateful for the diversion Hyrule supplied and crowded around the traveler without a second thought. It was only a matter of minutes before each hero had decided what they wanted, and more than one Link was watering at the mouth at the prospect of lunch.

“So,” Sky began, reading the finalized list out loud, “Time, Wars, and Wild want meat rice, Twi and I want salad, Wind and Four want shrimp, Legend wants, uh….bread?”

“Hey, I‘m not a picky person. Carbs are good for long term energy storage, anyway.” Legend explained. Four hummed in quiet agreement. Sky shrugged and continued on.

“And finally, Hyrule wants...oh dear, I can’t read my handwriting. Hyrule wants… H-A-L-V-A?” Sky said, the questioning inflection thick in his voice.

“Halva!” Hyrule replied cheerfully. “It’s like a really sweet paste. Don’t worry, there’s only one food vendor in the whole town, and he sells all of this stuff. You won’t be able to forget anything even if you tried.”

Sky and Legend looked at each other and shrugged, waving goodbye to the group as they veered off the path and made their way to Mido Town. The thwack of wood-on-wood and the high-pitched shout of Wind’s instructions faded as the two heroes walked on. The sun beat down relentlessly, glinting off the glassy sand and burning into the lacy hair on their heads.

Mido Town was even hotter and quieter than the path leading to it. A sun-baked wind blew through the shells of abandoned buildings, pushing around the crumbled remains of brick and mortar. Pink sand hovered in gritty clouds. It fluffed and plumed up to their waists every time the two heroes took a step. The faint imprints of their footsteps were swept away by a floor-length wind.

The villagers eyed them quietly. No one smiled. No one waved. Blinds closed. Doors shut. If it weren’t for the suspicious, life-weary eyes peering at them through darkened windows, Legend and Sky would have assumed the place to be abandoned.

Was this the kind of treatment Hyrule received during his journeys?

“Are you alright?” Sky queried, only half-looking for the vendor Hyrule had mentioned.

“Mmmm. It’s a great thing to see that this is the world I left behind for Hyrule. Nice to see that this is the fruit of my labors.” Legend’s voice was deadpan and flat despite the obvious ire in his words.

Sky said nothing. Grief flickered across his face.

“This is the world I left behind for all of you,” Sky mumbled to himself. His voice was barely audible over the humming of sifting sand.

“Ugh, Sky, you aren’t to blame for any of this,” Legend said. “And anyway, there isn’t a point in looking for someone to blame. It’s, it’s not going to fix anything. Beating yourself up for something you can’t control isn’t...uh...it isn’t a very smart thing to do.” His voice and thoughts and confidence began to trail off, but Legend forced himself to continue. “Let me just say that you’re so much stronger than you think you are. I, uh, I think Hylia made a wise choice.”

Legend turned to his companion and rested a hand on Sky’s shoulder. He had no more words left to say, nothing left inside his brain but the overwhelming conviction that he should be doing more. Should he confess? Should he tell Sky that he knew -- that he knew so much more than he should? That he knew everything Sky was trying to hide?

His soul fragmented under the weight of his guilt.

Sky gently curled his fingers around Legend’s wrist. His thumb rested on a vein on the underside of the veteran’s arm, and his breathing slowed to keep time with the blood’s calm thrum. A tear dribbled off Sky’s face and landed in the hot dust below, darkening and clumping the fine grains together. Eyes, dark and dull and unbelieving and flashing with ghostly wisps of orange, glittered with tears. Legend squeezed Sky’s shoulder and pulled away, lost for words and lost in thought.

┕━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━┙

#linkeduniverse #lu #loz #fanfiction

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applsauss · 5 years

Text

Mors Ab Alto [4/8]: Act 2: Part One

Description: You wake up in the ship-wrecked Ptolemaios.

Fandom:  Gundam 00

Pairing:  Tieria Erde/Reader

Word Count:  18k+

Warning(s): Slight Gore. Emotional Distress.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Present Day. ???.

And you’re weightless, the deep dark of sleep a surface you’re unable to breach. It ripples above you, internal and eternal - and then it’s tented over you, like a blanket of stars held up by the back of a chair. And you’re a child again, staring up at the light shining through the seams of a navy blue blanket. A hand pulls it back, a voice calls your name.

The hard mat beneath you is room temperature, grows warmer the closer it is to your body. Your fingers are cold.

And your weightless, the deep dark of sleep a surface you’re slow to breach.

Your hand twitches, then curls into a fist, and you feel no pain. You test it again, and then again, nails catching on the leather as you dig your fingers into the padding beneath you.

Your breathing stutters as you pull in more air, expanding your chest, and you don’t smell anything but a healthy dose of oxygen, maybe too much oxygen, which means you’re in space. Probably on the Ptolemaios, which would make sense because the last thing you remember is the cold glass fogging around your hand, dark, hard eyes, air that tastes like straight cane syrup and a cold fear that locks your joints together.

Your mouth tastes stale and dry, and when you unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, you taste copper. Your teeth are smooth, sharp. Your lips are chapped.

Paper crinkles beneath you. There’s a hum that waxes and wanes, and it’s accompanied by the lighter, quieter whir of something electrical. You hear the air filling your lungs, then rushing out of you. Your saliva is loud in your ear when you swallow.

And you’re weightless, the deep dark of sleep a surface you’re slowly breaching. It ripples around you, external and eternal, and your eyes begin to flutter open, and you’re still a child, staring up at a make-believe sky.

A hardy yawn is pulled from your chest, and you instinctively bring your hand up to cover your mouth. Your eyes water, and you blink away the tears, glad that the pain has finally left your limbs.

You push your chest out, wiggling to stretch your back, and your eyes finally focus and - you freeze, unsure what you’re supposed to be staring at - a blanket of stars tented over you.

You blink. You squint. Your lips part.

You see stars and more stars, blotted out by massive, beat up asteroids: exposed, shredded, a breath away, and very, very, real.

You see the horror of twisted metal, pipes and tubing spilling out into nothingness. the familiar beige of the medbay walls end abruptly in unforgiving black, cutting off, jagged, into nothing but de-pressurized horror. It looks like a wreck. You’ve seen your fair share of wrecks, but you’ve never woken up in one.

A ship destroyed, it’s nothing but a carcass. Hollowed out metal, with a ribcage for a hull. You choke on your spit, staring dumbly at the scene in front of you. A body floats past, the white spacesuit seemingly intact, but the way they’re drifting… moving, unmoving… You can’t see the face – you don’t want to see the face.

You look down to your right hand, skin smooth and tight, and swallow thickly. The sound echoes louder than it should and you’re acutely aware of the blood rushing in your ears.

“Doc-” you attempt to say, then begin coughing, throat dry and stretched. You swallow. “Doctor Moreno?”

It’s useless. “Okay, okay-” your chest rises and falls erratically, “okay, okay, okay.”

Hands pressed against the glass, it’s just black. A matte black sheet with no depth, only broken by pinpricks of light - the stars glare at you, they’re the holes you poke in a tupperware so an insect can breathe - only you’re the insect and you can’t breathe.

You don’t even notice your vision narrowing, and then you’re gasping for air, hands curling on the glass, condensation beginning to form, breath steaming, “Tieria?” His apology. His apology.

You start crying - you can’t start crying now - you don’t start crying now.

You pant as you push yourself around the small container, scrunching up near the bottom, pressing your face to the corners to try and see something – anything, but all you can tell is that you’re in the medbay, the pod is still bolted to the floor, and that the ceiling and some of the far right wall have been torn completely off, sloppily, like a collision at break-neck speed or -

Your forehead is damp with sweat. Bad, this is bad. Nine hours, that’s all it was, what could have happened in nine hours? What could have possibly happened?

Are you going to die here? What an awful way to go, trapped, abandoned by the assumed-dead. So many questions left unanswered – you don’t even know where you are, who the body a yard away belonged to. “Oh, shit-” Your vision spots and your gasps are ragged.

You’re going to die here, and this regeneration pod is your deathbed. The irony is not lost by you.

It’s just so loud. You can’t handle this. You can’t handle this. Your stomach contracts and your mouth tastes sour. You don’t want to die here but you’re going to die here. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” you spit until your throat is raw. Tears come freely now, pool around your eyes until you blink them away. You’re going to die here. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-“ After everything, the world hates you and you haven’t even finished yet.

“Tieria…” You claw at the glass, nails bending, “Oh, fuck. Tieria…”

You’re breathing sharply through your teeth, then grit out, “FUCK!” you hit the glass with both fists and it cracks. You jump back at the sound, and stare openly at the spider web crack. For a few terrifying moments, it spreads, and all you can do is watch as death creeps and creeps across your vision, splintering the glass until it stops, the split larger than your spread palm.

This isn’t how it ends, you try and convince yourself. You can’t die here. You grip the edges of the bed and pull yourself away from the glass to try and rein yourself in. You snap your mouth shut and focus on breathing through your nose. You try and slow it down, make a mental list of absolutes - you start from scratch.

You’re on the Ptolemaios. It wouldn’t make sense for you to be anywhere else, and when you stare hard enough, you can recognize the paint on the walls, the smooth, untouched flooring, even the… desk on the other side of the glass partition, and the pop-art hanging above the examination table. A picture of a young girl, with the same eyes as Doctor Moreno, floats past.

The Ptolemaios has been destroyed – No, the medical wing of the Ptolemaios has been destroyed. If you’re still breathing then… maybe there’s something still working aboard the ship.

You’re in an asteroid field – potentially Lagrange One, which is where you were when you were attacked… When Lockon...

You haven’t been recovered. Yet.

Someone is dead, the spacesuits the Ptolemaios is stocked with are unmarked, and generic – so it could be anyone, though most likely…

Your fingers begin to cramp, and you loosen your grip slightly, body slipping towards the glass again.

The hull of the Ptolemaios is melted.

How are you alive? And has it really only been nine hours? Maybe you were more injured than anyone thought. Maybe less?

You quickly scan the remains of the medbay. You probably can’t leave the safety of the regeneration pod without exposing yourself, but is there anyway you can get out? What can you do - What can you do?

Your eyes begin to burn again. Who would know what to do? Your back goes stiff with a sob, but you keep your lips pressed together and bite down hard on your tongue. Is there anything you can do? You’re not helpless. You can’t be helpless. There has to be something - there’s always something because you refuse to rot in a bed.

You turn your back to the wreckage and begin inspecting the bed of the regeneration pod, searching for something to ground yourself with. There’s not much you can see, but you can feel around blindly, guide yourself by touch. Your fingers find the seam of the mattress, but nothing else. Nothing else.

There’s nothing else.

You close your eyes. Your lungs stutter with a breath.

Does Earth look any different today than it did yesterday?

Your face is hot and your stomach bubbles uncomfortably. With a quiet exhale, you pull your hands away from the mattress and cover your face, trying to work some warmth back into your fingers and cool your swollen eyes. Then you continue your search.

***

Two weeks before the armed interventions. Lagrange Three, Krung Thep.

“I miss fresh air,” Ian grumbles through your open channel from somewhere above you. His filtered voice doesn’t pull your focus off the access panel in front of you. You adjust the tether tied to your belt, then unclip a screwdriver and begin the process of removing the access panel lid.

“I miss hiking,” you sigh, and it fogs the visor of your helmet.

“I miss the rain.”

You dig your fingers into the seams of the metal, and pop the lid off. The momentum sends you back towards earth for a few precarious moments before your hand flies to the controls at your waist and you correct yourself with your jetpack. With some finagling, you manage to hook the lid to the wall so it doesn’t float off, and then brace yourself against the open access panel, “I miss cooking real food.”

Ian hums static, dreamy agreement, “I miss eating real food.”

“I miss the smell of pine sap,” you breathe, slipping your right arm into access panel, feeling around for the right cable. You dig your fingers into a bundle, and grasp at one blindly, “Is this one it?”

“No,” is Ian’s reply. You continue to sort through the bundle. “I miss actual, natural vegetation,” he continues.

You huff a laugh, and tug on another cable, “This one? And do you mean vegetables? Because we have a greenhouse for that,” you say for the sake of being contrary, because it makes for good, easy banter.

“No – and it’s not the same thing. I miss potatoes - tomatoes and lettuce, this stuff doesn’t taste the same - you can taste the lack of gravity.”

“Yea,” you say honestly, “I miss gravity.” You tug on another cable. He doesn’t reply, so you try another.

“I miss - Hey,” he pauses, “do that one again.”

You give the cable a firm tug, “This one?”

“Yea. Give me a second - Hey, Selar? You can cut the power now.”

The light coming through the window below you shuts off, and you’re thrust into the dark of space, the only light coming from your headlamp, and distantly, Ian’s. The sun is shining on the other side of the colony, and behind you, the asteroids are illuminated in its light. You can’t see the satellite disk or the solar panels on the other side of the colony, but you figure they look ethereal under its attention.

“Good to cut the cable?” you ask.

“Should be fine.”

You pull a pair of wire cutters and make quick work of the plastic shell and copper wires. “Done.”

By the time Ian drifts on down next to you, you’ve begin to strip it, “You want to get in here?”

“Nah, you know what you’re doing.”

“Alright,” you shrug and continue.

You pocket the wire cutters, and then pull back just enough to work a second arm into the access panel. With mild struggling, you manage to reach down and tug up the wire you’d threaded through yesterday to connect it to the original one.

“You know,” Ian begins after a few moments of silence, “Linda’s been after me to get you to come to dinner sometime this week. She and Mileina are headed back to Earth, they won’t be here to see you off on your maiden voyage.”

“Yea,” you say, twisting the copper wires together, “That sounds fine. They going for business or pleasure?”

“Both,” Ian grunts. “And I thought you’d take more convincing,” he says suspiciously. You push yourself back, and he contacts Selar through their closed channel, “Switch it back on.” The lights come back on, “is it working?” he laughs, “alright,” and gives you the thumbs-up to finish up the job.

“Why would I need convincing?” you ask when he’s finished speaking with Selar. You push yourself back and pass the lid over for him to secure, “I like Linda more than I like you – and besides, how could I say no to a sad old man like you? I mean, you’re dragging me out here just to spend time with me. You know, you’ll be on Ptolemy before you’ve even had enough time away from me.”

“Oh, shut it,” Ian jabs a screwdriver in your direction, but you kick off the wall before he can poke a hole in your suit.

He huffs. “You’re such a brat.”

***

Present Day. ???, The Ptolemaios.

You’ve pulled the mat apart to get at the electronics underneath, but it’s no use. With a bed of wires exposed, it’s no use. Your eyes fall onto your healed right hand, and you glare at it before returning your attention to the mess you’ve made.

There’s nothing. There’s nothing you can think of - what a perfect time for your mind to finally be emptied of everything useful. You’re tired and hungry and all you can seem to think about are sharp eyes, a purple flight suit, the light caught on round glasses and a smooth voice.

He scoffs, “As long as it doesn’t affect your work,” and maybe it’s the late hour, or the hazy, violet light that’s swathed the briefing room, but you think his words came out kinder than he meant them to.

He’s unguarded, so are you, and he looks… Perfect, unbothered in your crisp memory. You’re a satellite caught in his orbit and he doesn’t even know it. You’ve felt this way before about a person, but you can’t help but be blinded by the newness of the realization, by the intensity of the emotions blooming, warm, in your chest.

“FUCK!” You grab your hair and pull, knees drawing to your chest as much as the small space will allow. You need to stop thinking about him. You need to get him out of your head because he’s not helping. He’s not helping - just focus on Ian.

“You want to get in here?” you ask, gesturing towards the access panel with your pliers because he’s your senior, your boss, your mentor and he always knows better than you.

“Nah, you know what you’re doing,” he waves you off, doesn’t even watch closely because that’s not why he’s dragged you out here, to take over, to micromanage. He trusts you. He knows you.

But you don’t know what you’re doing, and you don’t trust yourself. You drop your hands and stare tearfully at the mess of electronics you’ve only managed to tangle farther. You can’t think of anything helpful, can’t think of anything that would get you out. You were his right hand until you broke your own - and now you’re useless. Even with it back in working condition, it’s useless.

There’s no crawl space, no way to detach the regeneration pod from the floor from the inside - and you’re on the inside, trapped, cradled, contained - and where would you go? How would you get there?

You don’t have a pressurized suit, you don’t know when you’ll run out of air, you don’t know how much longer you can last without food, water, or a fucking bathroom, the fast of your induced coma is probably the only thing saving you in that regard - and the sun. Fuck, the sun. Is the glass polarized? It’s never come up, you don’t know, and the thought of being boiled alive, your blood frothing, blisters spreading across your exposed skin, popping...

Your lips are chapped and all you can do is wait for rescue, but if no one from Celestial Being has come for you yet, it’s because they’re dead. You wouldn’t be left behind, they wouldn’t, Tieria wouldn’t leave you behind. He wouldn’t, and you wouldn’t, and so the only logical conclusion is that they’re tied up, or dead - and Ptolemy is in pieces, shredded to ribbons - Lagrange One is a graveyard.

There’s just nothing. There’s nothing left. You have nothing left and the Ptolemaios is in pieces.

Then, a hair-raising chill runs through you as the ship moans in warning.

You don’t have time to shout as the whole ship suddenly lurches, a shiver warping the metal, making it sing. You watch, awestruck and fearful, as a brilliant flare of blue light glares off the asteroid in front of you, edging up and down, expanding and expanding, wavering in intensity until a sudden wave of heat passes over the pod, making your breath heavy and sweating.

The light from the explosion blinks out.

The ship moans.

Scattered, you think that maybe this is how it ends. You suck in a lung-full of air and blink away the glare from the explosion. Is heatstroke a better way to go than exposure? It’s prolonged, but how much can you really worry about if you’re wracked by a feverish insanity? If dying from hypothermia is like falling asleep in front of a fire, maybe this will be, too.

Breath catching in your chest, thick like syrup, you squeeze your eyes shut and cover the back of your neck at the next rumor of another shockwave. You curl your knees to your chest, ball everything up into one, manageable chunk, and the glass is vibrating so quickly it’s ringing, the fissures you’d caused with your fists rapidly crawling in every direction.

The initial explosion is followed by several, smaller bursts, each one making the Ptolemaios vibrate, hum, the metal hot to touch, your breathing shallower as you struggle to get air into your lungs.

You have no way to escape, and the Ptolemaios is falling apart.

With another devastating explosion, the ship is shoved towards you, and the bed of the regeneration pod hits you hard, your left hip colliding with the torn mattress, and then the side of your head smacking against the metal edging of the pod. The pain flashes a fuzzy, hot white, and then the black curtains are dropped across the stage.

***

Present Day. Lagrange One, The Ptolemaios.

And your weightless. And your gut is flipping like it’s the first time you haven’t had gravity to hold your food down, like when the linear train begins to decelerate when approaching an orbital ring.

Your shoulders crack when you move your arms. Your vision is blurry when you first open your eyes, and there’s a stabbing pain in your neck, muscles pulled taught, searing. Your ears are ringing, and the unforgiving sound pierces straight through you, making it feel like someone’s got your brain in their fist, and they’re squeezing.

You groan, bring a hand up to your throbbing skull, fingers threading through your hair, and it’s wet, sticking to your scalp, but when you pull your hand back to inspect the result, the only blood is dark and flakey. Sweat cools on your skin until you shiver, and the contrast leaves you reeling.

The Ptolemaios is in visible motion, you can feel the centrifugal force pushing you against the seam between the glass and the metal bed of the regeneration pod. It’s rotating slowly, but noticeably, and the tug is incessant, insistent, impossible to ignore.

The asteroid that’d been posted in front of the Ptolemaios, blocking your view of anything identifiable is looming closer than before, more menacing, and Doctor Moreno’s shocked, dead face is staring at you; His visor popped open, his dark glasses shattered, his face sucked in and blistering red. His flight suit is torn around the arms and chest, and you recognize the color of his lab coat and under shirt, frozen stiff, underneath.

You can’t summon any emotions, can’t cry, can’t feel relieved, you just stare at him and his dead, dead face and wonder if that’s how you’ll end up, if that’s how every member of Celestial Being is doomed to end up, lost before the end. Your head is throbbing, your stomach is doing flips, your mouth is sour, and you wonder if sticking it out is even worth it at this point, if your fate is irrefutably floating in front of you: something familiar and safe, torn and twisted into something gone.

Does Earth look any different today than it did yesterday?

***

Present Day. Lagrange One, The Ptolemaios.

And you’re weightless. You don’t remember falling asleep, but you did and it’s not surprising. You have no way of telling time and it breaks your perspective completely. You open your eyes, slow, and you find yourself staring back at the blue planet. It turns out, Earth doesn’t look any different than it did yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that. It’s still just there: Stagnant, smudged through the glass, a sliver of a crack from your fist running through the middle, displacing all the water in the ocean.

You’re shattered, hollowed out, and Earth looks exactly the same as it did yesterday, it’s still blue, muddy brown and algae green. The oceans still catch the sun, play in the light, and the clouds still swirl and fluff to resemble a glass marble, and you don’t have enough tears left to cry for any of it.

Your head is throbbing with a dull pain. Your hands are itching for an escape, and your chest hurts, and your chest hurts, and your chest hurts.

Delirious, you think of how nice it would be if when you closed your eyes, you could open them to Tieria and Doctor Moreno, alive, smiling down at you. You can feel it in your heart as it beats, and you soothe yourself with the thought of the Gundams descending from the heavens, GN particles like halos, and they lift you from the Ptolemaios like the second rising of a prophet of god.

The stage is lit from darkness, the players enter, the music swells, and then Tieria steps forward to assuage all doubts. He reveals that Celestial Being is near-faultless, and then his performance is followed by the leaders of the Three Blocks, who issue a joint statement renouncing everything rotten they’ve cultured and let fester.

And then you’ll be on Earth, in a kitchen with yellow walls, and your mother will be in front of the stove, alive beyond all reason. All you’ll be able to smell is butter melting, and all you’ll hear is the scraping of a spatula on cast-iron and Tieria’s subtle laugh. He’ll sit with you, hand over yours, look you in the eyes and tell you that there’s nothing more you could have reasonably done, and you’ll tell him the same.

And Lockon will live, stand in the rain for more days than he can count, and next to him will be all of Celestial Being going about their mundane lives, unaffected by wars: Setsuna buying groceries, Feldt in a classroom, fingers tapping on the desk as she listens to her instructor.

And Ian and Linda will have you over at their house for dinner once a week, and Mileina will ask you to help her on her math homework, because she’s just begun algebra.

And you’ll have a dog with a strong bark and a tail that whips, and you’ll live in a forest, a patchwork of leaves painting a patchwork of sunlight across an open window, the breeze playing with the slats in the blinds, with Tieria, his eyes flashing amber, and - You’re crying.

You start crying because there’s nothing left but the chewed out carcass of Ptolemy and Moreno’s pale, pale face - he won’t stop looking at you, staring past you, over your shoulder at some threat that’s looming behind you.

There’s a lot to regret.

Staring at the Earth, watching it exist in the way that it does, you can’t summon any emotions for it except for the faint notion of bitterness that climbs up your throat, and you finally let yourself believe the terrifying thought that this is the end, truly. Nobody is coming for you, because they’re dead. If Ptolemy looks like this, then you can only imagine what the gundams must look like: Shredded, dissected, Dynames was down anyways, Tieria would have had to deploy as Nadlee.

And you’re crying.

Your breath is scalding on the palm of your hand as you try and stifle your sobs. The last thing you remember is a river, summer sun, and the echo of laughter down a canyon - And then the cold, dark twilight of a ship working with minimal power, the blue glow of a viewscreen on pale skin.

What’s left of you but duty, the past, and unrequited emotional attachments? Are you any different than you were yesterday?

God, there are just some things you want – want so badly you can feel them in your hands, grasp them, taste them. You just wanted to make a difference, you just wanted justice, you just wanted to live.

You just… Fuck, you just want to see your mom again. You just want to be with Tieria. You just want everything to be okay but it’s not. It’s not okay. Nothing is okay right now and you’ve made a mess of the wiring. Various electronics and wires from the regeneration pod float mockingly past you.

Your tears are heavy on your cheeks, and in front of you, the Earth is a puzzling blue, it steals your breath - You take a deep breath.

And then you watch, gutted, as a sleek, nondescript shuttle cruises past, above you. You can feel it in the metal of the regeneration pod as it docks.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

A/N: I forgot what Krung Thep looked like for a hot minute, and made it less of a super secret, fully camouflaged space base and more of a regular, but still pumpin’, space colony. Space is big. I think it’s highly unlikely that what little presence the Three Blocks had in Lagrange three would stumble across a single, tiny asteroid.

Masterlist in blog desc.

#tieria erde #gundam 00 #tieria erde imagine #tieria erde x reader #gundam 00 x reader #gundam 00 imagine #mors ab alto

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